I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.
Palimpsest
What She Did On Her Summer Vacation: Chapter 2
By Larry Huss
Hermione Granger was sitting in front of the computer keyboard in her parents' office. The receptionist had gone for the day; some personal business to do with a colicky baby that wouldn't quit fussing. So, off from school, she was given something to do; direct patients in to the dentists as chairs became available. It was either that, or having one of the actual Doctors Granger constantly popping out and checking to see if people were there. She was good for something, at least.
Not that her parents ever disparaged her; to them she was ice cream and candy, but they were only parents, after all. School was out, so she was here. School was out, so she had no 'friends.' Those creatures were seasonal, depending on how hard the homework or writing assignments were that they needed her to help them with. No school… no homework. She'd figured that out a few years ago. No one (except parents) wanted a Hermione unless they needed a Hermione. And who would, if school was out?
She looked with a dull hatred at the computer. An Acorn Archimedes A300; obsolescent at half her age, and dooming her to her own obsolescence. The only thing that she could do was read and know things, and that outdated box of metal and silicon already did that better than she ever could. Soon everybody would have one of these things, and then who would ever need the Hermione Jean Granger, Model 1, research and writing drudge, ever again?
She put her fingers on the keyboard. She had taught herself to touch-type years ago, it made things look so much more professional. Now she should start to type some suitably childlike story or something, so that when one of her parents came out to check on her they'd see that she was cheerfully exploring the exciting new world of the electronic age, or some such rubbish. The important thing was that they wouldn't see how miserable their friendless daughter was, and be sad themselves. And then try to cheer her up. That was even more depressing to her than there not being any school; hurting those who cared for her.
The screen began to look unnaturally dim, and it felt as if her bushy brown hair had started to frizz up, a sure sign and warning to her that…
"Oh God!" she thought. It was happening again, one of those strange spells when odd things happened, and everything became… different. After the second of them, years ago, she had gone on another of her frenzied knowledge hunts, searching up on epilepsy. She had hid her fears, that she was damaged, from her parents; no use giving them something else to worry about.
Suddenly her fingers were flying over the keyboard, typing at speeds she had never attained before. Her mind was either blank, or filled with too much to understand any single discrete thing at all. Suddenly her hand reached out, hit "print", and she stopped. She felt the heat throughout her body, the slight sweatiness that meant that she had had another fit. She was sure that she had seen sparks at the ends of her fingers, just now.
The printer finished with the short message, and stopped.
"Ok, Granger, it looks like you've fallen low enough to be doing Automatic Writing. Let's see what gibberish you can produce." She had once read a book about Houdini the magician, and his views on Spiritualism and Automatic Writing had influenced her greatly.
There it was, in her hands, a sheet of… something that she really had to think over. She put the paper down. Mrs. Hanty came out from Mum's operating room; Hermione checked her clipboard, and told Mr. Torton to go to the door on the left. She pulled Mrs. Hanty's file, and indicated that she had left, and should be billed later. She folded the results of her seizure, and put it in a pocket of her shirt. For a moment she looked at the computer again, slightly frightened, and put her fingers diffidently up onto the keyboard again. Lightning didn't strike again that day. She wasn't sure if she was glad, or disappointed.
Ω
That night, after a perfectly normal dinner at home with parents who successfully hid their concern at how their daughter was acting just a bit 'off' for her, she went to her room and a spot of light reading. One page's worth to be exact.
I U
Either some odd word or a puzzle: I am You.
U Witch
Obviously she had cracked, and her buried sub-thing had decided to give her delusions of power. She certainly wasn't a witch, there simply weren't any. So: You are a Witch was the raving of a damaged mind.
CauldronPubLndon 49CharingCrossRd goDiagonAlly Brng £s
The capitalization helped, she thought: there is a pub called the Cauldron, a pub at 49 Charing Cross Road in London. It was evidently near something called Diagon Ally (or Alley), and things were sold there. Things she would be interested in. A rare and second hand book store?
She got out her Standard Student's Geography of the British Islands (1986 edition), and turned to the index for London Streets. No Diagon anything. She turned to the page that covered that stretch of Charing Cross Road. No suitable alleys, named or anonymous, were shown. Evidently her diseased and feeble brain had made a mistake, one obvious to the most basic intellect! Then it was back to the sheet of print.
H Potter trainhelpalways
Someone called Henry (?) Potter was always training, was her friend, and would help her always? Hermione thought that she was a bit old to develop an imaginary friend (though her affection for, and playing with, stuffed animals was probably normal enough, she thought). Perhaps her personality was splintering, and a younger fraction of herself was looking for a friend, and made one up.
Lesshndup
That took a bit of work. Finally she figured that if modified it a little it would become: Less hands up. Just what one of her teachers had said in a little, private after school conference. It had been well meant, but if your only value was as a walking encyclopedia, didn't you need to remind people of that at every turn and question? Evidently her sub…conscious was an obedient thing. Or else maybe Mrs. Wilton's advice had finally sunken in deep enough.
HorcruxEvilVold made
Mmm. That could have been compressed a bit more and still made as little sense. Evil Vold had made a Horcrux. Why not Vlad, rather than Vold? What was a Horcrux, it sounded vaguely dirty. Or else Vold had made an Evil Horcrux; as opposed to a good one? Was the word Horcrux at all, or something odder yet? In fact, how certain could she be her inner mind hadn't just made the odd typo?
Scabers=PtgrewAnmagus
Probably Ptgrew was a name. Was Anmagus one word or two? Anne Magus or Anmagus. Scabers was equal to PtgrewAnmagus, perhaps a secret identity? Pretty much rubbish, decided Hermione.
LrnOcclumency,Legilmency
So, her hidden personality wanted her to learn (Lrn, an easy one this time) Occlumency and Legilmency. That sounded like two fields of study; one was probably helping people get eyeglasses. At least this time her inner crazy was interested in her getting a decent profession. She wouldn't be getting bitten (as her parents sometimes complained of) if she was working with people's eyes. And the other was probably some obscure way of pointing her at the legal profession. Well, you don't get bit there much either.
D conclsfcts
A definite warning, that one! Someone with the initial D was lying to her. Of perhaps, just not telling her everything she should know. Wracking her brains she was coming up blank for anyone with the initial D who could be important enough to her to make her leave a message to herself. Her parents were Frederick and Jean, her doctor was Thomas Rutan, and as best she remembered none of her teachers had been 'D' named. As for friends…
It was time to go to sleep now. In the morning probably there would only be a blank sheet of paper on her desk, or no sheet of paper. She would look in the fridge and find the leftovers from a completely different meal than she thought she had eaten this evening. All a dream… it would prove all a dream.
Ω
It didn't.
Ω
Jean Granger wondered why Hermione had a practically grim look on her face, and why she looked into the fridge the first thing in the morning. When asked if there was anything she wanted, the girl just shook her head with an almost savage energy. Not like herself at all. Jean Granger was worried; she knew girls sometimes matured faster than expected. Had their little lady suddenly entered the Sullen Teens? Hermione was always full-hearted in whatever she did. A Hermione that was constantly contrary and hostile for the next five or eight years was not something a parent could contemplate with a serene mind. Fortunately, Jean knew her daughter well enough that if this was a temporary storm, she could be diverted into a safer mood.
"So, love, how's about we take a trip to the library? We have a slow schedule at work today. I'm sure your father can handle it all, with a little re-arranging."
That was the cue for Hermione to say that she could get there well enough by herself, but thanks anyway. It didn't happen.
"… don't know, Mum. We could have a girl's day though, couldn't we? I sort of remember the address of this very interesting shop in the city. On Charing Cross Road, I think. Let's look there, and we can have lunch at someplace special, and it will be wonderful!"
Not exactly what Jean had been working for, but the weather was nice, and this Hermione was certainly easier to get along with than the one who had been in the house less than two minutes ago. If only she hadn't had that slight off-timing with her reply. Almost as if her daughter was doing some complicated thinking on the fly, instead of just suggesting their favorite type of shopping.
In the end a bit of shoe shopping came first, and then the lunch. Jean was becoming worried at how bright and cheerful and smiling Hermione was. Usually she was only this perky and bubbly on Christmas day, or when a particularly good museum was next on their vacation schedule. She was definitely hiding something. Jean wondered if Hermione was stalling, before revealing she was entered a new part of her life, and wanted to get her ears pierced, or start dating. Well, they'd given her the basic Talk earlier this year. Perhaps a bit of more practical advice from one who had Been There, and… What was she thinking? Hermione was just ten; if she needed more details at this point in her life, they should all just go into Family Therapy!
She was finally led by her daughter to the location at Charing Cross, and saw a splendid bookstore. When Hermione commented on it was odd to see such a dilapidated pub right next to it Jean was surprised. There wasn't any such thing. When Hermione quizzed her on all the stores up and down the street that she could see and their numbers, she complied with increasing confusion. When Hermione had her pull out her always on-hand note pad, and write down each of the stores, she saw the problem. There was a misnumbering of the doors. These things happened after all. So many things put up and knocked down, hundreds of years of fires and reconstructions, the Blitz. These things happened. She explained this to her daughter, who was sometimes a bit rigid, as children often were.
It didn't go over well. For some reason Hermione was most insistent that there was something there, somehow.
"Mum, I'm probably quite mad. I see a grotty pub right next to the perfectly interesting bookstore that we must get to soon. You can't see it. So I'm insane. Or brain-damaged, I'm not sure which. In any case, I've got to go in to it, and see what it's like. And when I bump my nose against a brick wall you can come over, and pick me up, and gently lead me to the psychiatrist of your choice. I won't resist. But I must try this. Oh, and could you give me about £50? Tell Dad I love you both."
With that, after seeing that her mother wasn't reaching to open her purse, Hermione shrugged and headed off into the blank brick wall between the bookstore and a tobacconist.
"Where do you think you're going, young lady?" Jean managed to get out, grabbing her daughter by one of her swinging arm, as said young lady half-disappeared into the wall.
Ω
Towing her mother wasn't nearly as hard as Hermione had thought it would be; at least if she was currently stunned by her daughter's sudden penetration of solid matter right in front of her. As the pair completed their passage through the front door, Hermione heard Jean say in a very small voice, "a pub." Looking at her made it clear that she wasn't going to be much use for a little while, so steering her to an out of the way corner the girl looked around, and tried to figure out what to do now. She put her philosophical questions about her own sanity aside for the moment; if she was hallucinating she'd get it all straightened out later. Currently none of the oddly dressed people at the tables or huddled in the gloom shrouded booths were paying any attention to them. That wasn't likely to continue, if they kept on acting confused and out of place. Hermione shuddered with tension, then straightened her shoulders and walked up to the barkeep. Dad always said the barkeep was usually the person who knew the most about an area.
There he was: big, bald, and bent, wiping down the bar with the traditional filthy wet rag. The telly got some things right, at least. Seeing a young girl, he tried to put on a non-threatening smile. It worked, despite the gaps in his dental array. Hermione was keyed to notice things like that especially, of course.
"An' what can I do for you, little lady?"
"Please sir, we're new to the neighborhood, and have gotten turned around. Could you please tell us the way to Diagon Alley? "
"Ol' Tom thinks you're maybe a bit new to the witchin' business also, ain't you?"
"I am sir, and my mother is still getting up to speed on it all. I would appreciate it ever so much if you could help us. The directions aren't completely clear that I received. They sort of stopped on directing us here, to your place. Oh, I'm Hermione Granger, sir." With that she gave an embarrassed little bow, not knowing anything better to do.
Old Tom nodded. This wasn't the first time a young witch (as was obvious from the time he saw the girl dragging her stunned mother into the place) had come into the Leaky Cauldron with no background of what to expect. As he glanced over to the Muggle-dressed woman he noticed her head swiveling left and right taking in the Witches, Wizards, Goblins, Hags, and other assorted patrons, taking in their early afternoon refreshment. She was quiet, at least. Muggles who went off violently when they first saw the real world were a disturbance he could well do without. A genial man by nature, he quickly made up his mind how to handle this situation.
"Matt, Matt get your lazy ar… bones over 'ere!"
In a minute or so a very short, bald-headed man showed up, with an apron and obligatory rag tucked into it. He smiled; there were an awful lot of extremely long and sharp teeth revealed. Hermione had to hold herself in a tight grip not to suddenly start or back way. When Matt saw her staying still (even though her eyes did widen a bit) he gave a nod. This one would do.
"Take these two… Miss Granger and her Ma… to the Alley, and help 'em get in. Give 'em directions to Gringotts, too.
"Don't worry child, getting' out is easy, it's goin' in that is a bit awkward for the first timers."
"Thank you sir. What's Gringotts, though?"
"The Bank, deary. You'll need to get your Muggle stuff changed into proper Wizarding currency if you want to get anything in the Alley. Now grab yer Ma, and follow Matt, here. He'll steer you right. And keep on being polite; anyone who rags on you when you're like that is a right proper pillock anyway."
Hermione gave a slightly deeper bow at that, and went quickly to get her mother, who looked like she had recovered enough to start asking questions, especially about several of the place's patrons whose appearances were at the border (or beyond) of what was considered humanity, even by the educated Mrs. Granger.
Matt led them into the back yard of the pub, past tables with customers being as mundane as sipping mugs of (presumably) ale, and others at which a spoon was being used to stir and cool soup. It was the fact that no one was holding the moving spoon that caught the two outsiders' attention. When they were through the gauntlet (so to speak) and in the yard, Matt tapped a counterclockwise pattern on the brick wall at its rear, and the bricks distorted and rearranged themselves into a very respectably sized arched entrance to a bustling shopping street that looked very much like it came out of a historical film of the 'the Victorian Period wasn't miserable' school. Jean was still being dragged (slightly) by her arm, and it was Hermione who took the directions to the bank. Matt had a bit of advice for them, also:
"Just follow the street. It'll be on the right, the Bank. And don't let them cheat you too much. Ya' can't stop them completely. I know; me Mum's a goblin. But if you keep sharp you'll get out with a bit at least. Luck to ya'!"
The two ladies wandered up the street, looking into the shop windows, and seeing very ordinary things: books, cauldrons, robes and their associated pointed hats… perhaps, after all, not exactly perfectly ordinary things. Also they saw some clearly very outlandish things: brooms specialized for racing, pet shops with vultures, and a kiosk selling ghosts to haunt your house (and give it that pre-died-in distinction).
The people moving through the narrow and kinked street continued in the 'Mr. Dickens is Here' theme from the pub. Those not in fullest witch or wizard garb revealed dresses and cloaks, or waistcoats and breeches that would have given all the needed on location and time-warp flair to a production of David Copperfield. Except that after they had gone perhaps a hundred yards or so up the street (Hermione noticed the streets were filled with people, and that there was no evidence of carts, horses, or their… leavings) there was, at a place the street split in a V, a rather different film being introduced into their visual vocabulary.
The Wizard of Oz, design done by Brian Froud. Actually… Froud, if he had been experimenting with some of the more unpleasant hallucinogens. In particular there was the someone who was standing outside the white marble building with the brass letters above the door saying Gringotts. Someone short, nasty and seemingly with a surprising number of spikes and fangs. No, Hermione saw, they weren't spikes. They were a small collection of polearms and multi-branched throwing things. Well, he wasn't blocking the door, so more like a bank guard than anything else. No reason to falter then, she thought, and continued to pull her mother behind her as she gave a chipper "Good afternoon" to the chainmail-clad security officer, and entered the bank.
Inside there continued the disorientating feeling. The insides were evidently much larger than the outsides appeared, not something a girl raised in the media-savvy Granger household would feel intimidated by for more than an instant. A long row of tellers, each at their own window lined either wall, none of them remotely looking like a human. Green skin, long ears and nose, and other facial features that told her unequivocally 'You're not in your Britain anymore, dearie!' "Mum, you do have your chequebook on you, don't you? I'm not sure they'll take Barclaycard here."
Given a question of an adult, financial nature, Jean Granger came to the fore. She snapped her head in a firm nod, and led her child to the nearest available teller's cage. And got no reaction. She 'hemmed', and got no reaction. Watching the little (she could see, now that she was up close, that he wasn't above three feet tall or so, just like the guard outside) she suddenly smiled. And began to hum an irritating little tune in an irritating way. Soon enough, the teller realized that the pleasure of ignoring her was going to lead to him being subjected to a bad rendition of elevator music for the indefinite future. In self-preservation he responded:
"What can I do for you, human?"
"Change this cheque on a British bank into the local currency, please."
"Less customery fees and the conversion rate, of course." Said with more than a hint of a sneer.
"Which is…?"
"Fifteen percent, if it's on a reputable bank."
"Surely ten…" Jean murmured.
"Twelve, and it's my last offer!"
Hermione looked on with pleasure. Mother was back in the swing of things now. They'd have so much more fun with both of them operating at full (or beyond) capacity.
A little further negotiation and the Grangers left the bank with twenty Galleons, and a moderately displeased Goblin teller. She was cheated, of course, but much less so than the average witch. If the others found out about it he'd be laughed at. Still, it was better than that infernal humming!
Outside they began to work their way up one side of the main street, and down the other. There were some interesting side streets, but the largest one of those looked positively grungy. The sort of thing the film director would have shot his scenes of crime, sordid passion, and general drunken degeneracy. The main street was so much nicer.
At the pet store Jean refused (again) to get Hermione a cat. But she letter her go into the store and pet one. They wondered at the number of owls, toads, and odd aquatic creatures that were being sold. Hermione stopped her mother from going into a store and purchasing a set of self-stirring and self-heat regulating cookware. It would have cleaned them out, and they didn't have the counter space for them anyway. They both couldn't figure out what were the most stylish robes, and beyond admiring the fabric of the samples in the window put off clothes shopping for another day. Ditto shoes.
At Fineline's Stationers Hermione got a set of quills, inks, and calligraphy training kit.
At Flourish & Blot's they purchased: A Young Witche's Guide to Manners, by Hawthorne Mary.
A used edition of Potions: First through Third Year by Horace Slughorn.
Household Charms, Illustrated by Agatha Manx.
Easy Charms and Hexes by Hippolitus Bones, Auror (whatever that was).
Wandering with Werewolvesby Gilderoy Lockhart.
Magical History: Condensed and Re-edited by June Symonds.
That day's edition of the Daily Prophet newspaper.
Satisfied with their afternoon's shopping they left by the Leaky Cauldron, and it was far easier to leave than to enter Diagon Alley. While there they had a quick refreshment; Hermione a lemonade (fair, but no prize winner), and Jean a mug of stout (prize winner, and made in the cellar of the place).
On the drive home Jean tried to quiz her daughter, not least about where she had heard about the pub entrance to the… well, what Diagon Alley was exactly was a bit hard to decide. The only response was that it would save time to have that talk with Dad present, and "I'm not mad then, am I?" in a small and wondering voice. "No dear," Jean said, "you're not."
Ω
It was the newspaper that decided Fred Granger, that evening. Gag newspapers were easy enough to have made up; ones with self-moving pictures in them, less so. They went through the paper together, staying at it long past Hermione's regular bedtime. Political news, a police report (so that's what Aurors were!), sports scores for unknown teams and activities, a chess problem, advertisements that were informative if also a bit confusing, and a small little column called "Weekly roundup of Harry Potter Sightings." The last had a slightly defeated air about it. Evidently even the writer was getting tired of endless mistakes and misidentifications. It seemed like some "Where's Waldo" stunt that had gone on too long with no winners.
It finally became the family consensus that Hermione (I U) from the future had written a note to Young Hermione, and sent it via Magic Express. Either there was a closed time loop (all those hours watching Doctor Who had not been wasted), or things up time-stream had gone bad because she hadn't done those things, or gotten a proper warning. That was when the conversation got bogged down for a bit on Alternate Realities and other philosophical concepts. Eventually, they decided it wasn't worth the confusion; they'd deal with the situation as if whatever they did was important, and ignoring the note was a Bad Thing Indeed.
Over the next week, Hermione's odd message from herself, was thoroughly examined, analyzed, and her original conclusions (and confusions) basically agreed to. Local health foods and exotic herb shops provided a surprising number of the ingredients listed in the books on Potions… at least the botanical ones. Enough for a few of the basic mixtures, in any case. Pyrex bowls, cleaned in distilled water, with glass rods for the stirring, enabled Hermione to complete a Numbing Ointment, Scentless Powder, and a decent wizarding equivalent to epoxy glue. And its remover.
It soon became clear that charms and hexes were difficult to do without a proper magic wand, and that use of such tools was restricted (as evidenced by the notes in Auror Bones' book) for underage users. What the actual age for the end of restrictions evidently was so well known as to not needing to be indicated. But all in the Granger house hold agreed that 10 was probably a bit under the line. Some of the Basic Hexes were also rather disturbing. There seemed to be a fairly vicious and adolescent strain in what was being offered for the education of pre-teens.
Reading Magical History lead them to the conclusion that the 'Vold' mentioned in the mysterious bout of Automatic Typing was most likely the 'V…' that was used as the identifier for the latest of a series of Dark Lords that seemed to occur regularly in Wizarding society. The Horcrux things were still mysterious, but no one, on reading of V's deeds, had any doubts that they were probably very evil.
It was at the end of Magical History that one of the lines of her message, in conjunction with the newspaper column, became clear. HPotter was someone she had (was going to) meet (met), and it was important to help him, always. It was evident that he was a boy, nearly her own age. And she would meet him; how odd, how scary, how exciting.
The fields of study recommended for Hermione were still obscure, but her parents assured her that they certainly weren't referring to giving eye examinations, or studying for the bar.
They also regretfully agreed that the warning to not volunteer to answer questions quite so eagerly was probably a note from Future Hermione that indicated a hard-learned lesson in social relations.
'Scabers' and 'Ptgrew' remained obscure, as well as the identity 'D', the concealer. When you got right down to it, almost all the other items had checked out, or seemed realistic; so she put these on the back burner, for contemplation in the future.
That summer Hermione begrudged every hour they had her go down to the local swimming pool and exercise. At least until she had gotten their promise that fifty hours, moving vigorously, in the pool would earn her another little shopping jaunt to London. This time they had a better idea of what to look for, and the shed Fred had set up in the backyard would be perfect for Hermione's work on slightly more advanced potions.
Her vigorous embracing of the life aquatic had gotten Hermione her second trip to Flourish and Blots, and she determined that even the most Muggle of the Muggleborn would receive an offer to come to Hogwarts, if they showed some magic in them. 'The Affair of the Self-Repairing Waterford Goblet,' 'Mizzy Benton's Mysterious Backflip,' and, of course, 'Why Hermione's Bedroom Could Never stay Painted That Cute Pink for Very Long,' proved, as did her ability to see through Muggle hiding spells, that she was of at least middling magical nature. It was only as she was about to start her last year at her old Primary school that an awful thought came to her.
She couldn't help but feel that "H Potter trainhelpalways" was an extremely important part of her message. Suppose 'H Potter' wasn't going to Hogwarts? Sure, Harry Potter was, from looking at the date of his birth, due to show up at Hogwarts in a year, the same year she was (she thought) going to be allowed to enroll. Suppose instead that Harry Potter wasn't magical, no matter what the Children's (and often very childish) books about him said? Suppose 'HPotter' wasn't, in fact, the Harry Potter she had read about in wizarding materials at all? Could it be a Henry Potter, a Heidi Potter, a Hank Potter, a Hattie Potter, after all? By going to Hogwarts, pinning her hopes and efforts in that direction so firmly, was she actually going in the wrong direction, again?
Jean Granger shook (metaphorically) a little sense into her on that. Sitting a trembling and distraught girl next to her on the sofa she explained carefully:
"No matter how compressed that message was, an awful lot of it makes no sense unless the author was all for you becoming a trained witch. The whole 'go to Diagon Alley' part could have left off, if you weren't meant to be prepared for the experience. All that was needed was to write… hmmmm… 'U Witch but don't Hogwarts,' that would do it! Or any other magic school could have been put in there.
"So don't worry, darling. Either you'll meet the H Potter you need to find there, or you'll discover how to locate that person, whoever they are."
Hermione calmed down a bit, but a little more thought provoked the next level of paranoid thought.
"Mum, suppose the note isn't really from me, but someone pretending to be me. And giving bad advice on purpose? What will I do then?"
"Don't drink and drive, and learn everything you can that'll let you find out what you should be doing instead. Don't lose who you are, and what you want to become, in 'maybe ifs.' Learning to become a good witch, and a good person, is your first concern. If you do that, the rest will follow. Maybe not some victory with a parade down High Street, but your own life, the way you want it."
There the matter rested. It was an incomplete and partial answer to her questions, but Hermione accepted that there was an awful lot she just couldn't know… yet. That was for the future to reveal, as it was created. Her job, which she accepted eagerly, was to become the best Hermione she could imagine. She'd burn her bridges, and those of her foes, as she came up to them.
Ω
Over the course of the next school year there was at least a little "Lesshndup" done. Painful as it was, Hermione resisted becoming the source of first resort of those in her class that wanted high grades with little effort. What she lost on the straightaways, she made up on the roundabouts. Allowing others to get their hands up before hers, and get credit for answering questions eased into a cautious cordiality with several students, to make up for those who no longer gave lip service to friendship in return for her notes and help. She even discovered several in her class that were friendly for no good reason, except that was the way they were. If she had never changed her behavior she would have never known that she had actually had some friends, all along!
Her grades didn't actually suffer; there was only so much extra credit that teachers were willing to give in any case. Her slightly less hectic academic life allowed her to finish reading through (twice) the basic texts from her anticipated first year of magical education. And swimming, which she had discovered to her surprise was actually mentally relaxing. Her mind would wool-gather while she did laps, and her emotional tensions and obsessions would lessen a bit. It was while doing the third kilometer of a Saturday's session that she realized a potential problem that would come up during the coming summer, and how best (her parents, on hearing about it, approved of her reasoning) to deal with it. Her favorite word that year became 'synergy.'
On July 1st, 1991, there was a knock on the door of the Granger residence. It being a Sunday morning, both of the senior Grangers were present, Hermione being down at pool getting in her morning exercise. As the visitor, a Mrs. Septima Vector, had come with some rather unusual news pertaining to the girl, a slight awkwardness followed, until she decided that nothing would do, but that she reveal the purpose of her visit.
"Mrs. Granger, Mr. Granger, I'm afraid, or perhaps it should be overjoyed, that I have some news for you about your daughter. It is a fact that she is a witch!"
At this point Mrs. Vector, who had preformed this same office as one of those introducing the Muggleborn to their magical nature and opportunities for several years, was somewhat disappointed at the lack of spontaneous outbursts of protests by the parents, or other demonstrations of astonishment or disbelief. Instead, a strange sort of whimsical nonchalance seemed to be the basic emotional tone of the Granger home.
"Well that certainly explains a few things," Mr. Granger said.
"We always did think our little Hermione was special," Mrs. Granger continued. "While we're waiting for her to get back… it shouldn't be more than a half-hour or so… would you like some tea and biscuits?"
It did sound tempting, and when Hermione Jean Granger got back home, swinging her gym bag with her wet towel and swimsuit inside, she found her parents in a friendly and animated conversation with Mrs. Septima Vector (the former Miss Septima Rakoczy) on the need to somehow develop a good enough protective spell, or at least an effective analogous Transfiguration, so as to allow a calculator to be used in a high magic environment.
When Mrs. Vector reluctantly left to get to the other two names on her list for the day, she had agreed to let Hermione lead her parents to Diagon Alley, and had left a very thorough instruction sheet on what to get, where to get it, and what to look out for. Mrs. Vector had spent a little extra time (pleasantly) that day, and saved herself a great deal of extra concern and trouble at a future date by not having to be escort for another bewildered Muggleborn student and parent. As no negative effects ever were reported to her about her slight dereliction of duty, she never thought of it again. Perhaps if the more experienced and suspicious Professor McGonagall had been the one to meet the Grangers that day there would have been some inquires made about why they were so unfazed at what should have been a startling announcement. However, things being what they were, no awkward questions about how calm the Grangers were got asked, and perhaps that was just as well.
